


A Rose By Any Other Name

by playout



Series: The Sward of Gryffindor [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff, HP: EWE, Humor, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 03:26:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3794881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playout/pseuds/playout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry knows there are special meanings associated with different colors and types of flowers, like yellow roses for friendship and red for romance. So what kind of bouquet is in order when what he really wants is to snog his good friend Draco?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Rose By Any Other Name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PrinnPrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinnPrick/gifts).



> By special request, this is Harry's perspective of the events from In Bloom. You don't need to read that one first, but it's barely more than 2k words--I think you can dig deep and power through it to gain a better appreciation for this little fic ;)

Harry's arrival at the The Sward of Gryffindor was announced by the cheerful tinkle of bells hanging from the glass-windowed door of the nursery and garden shop.

"Hiya, Harry," Neville greeted, smile warm and welcoming as a sunflower. "What brings you in today?" He brushed potting soil off his hands but a fair bit remained beneath his fingernails.

"I'd like to place an order, Nev," Harry replied. "I need Hannah to work her magic, actually."

Neville's expression turned knowing and Harry fought a blush. "Is that a fact?"

"Yeah. Um, is Draco supposed to pick up his potions ingredients today?" He didn't really need to ask. He knew Draco's schedule as well as his own. Better, in fact, because Draco actually kept _his_. 

Neville nodded the affirmative, corners of his mouth quirked. 

"Well, uh, I'd like a bouquet to be included with them."

"Sure thing," Neville said easily, as if he weren't the least bit surprised. "What's the occasion, if I may ask?"

Harry shoved his hands in his pockets. "It's sort of a 'just because' thing," he mumbled. 

"Ah, yes. That is the second most popular reason flowers are bought."

Harry took the bait. "What's the first?"

"Blokes hoping to score a shag." Neville winked. 

Harry choked on his tongue. 

"That's _not_ \--I mean, I wasn't--It's not like--" he spluttered. 

Neville just looked on in amusement as Harry became increasingly flustered.

He turned away to collect himself, unable to do so with those laughing eyes fixed on him. 

He had testified on Draco's behalf for two reasons, neither of which had anything to do with trying to get into his pants. The first was because it seemed the sort of thing Dumbledore would do--olive branches and second chances and all that rot. The second was that he'd seen enough of Tom Riddle's visions to know Draco hadn't been the eager little Death Eater he'd tried to convince everyone he was. He'd been a scared kid just like the rest of them. 

There may have been a third reason that had to do with the piercing grey eyes that haunted his dreams, but Harry wasn't introspective enough to be sure of it so he elected not to dwell. 

It had been something of a surprise when, a year later, he found himself at the gates of Malfoy Manor just before half eleven on the last day of Draco's sentence. Harry had intended to return Draco's wand on the first day of his freedom, but an idea had taken root that proved to be rather tenacious (like one of Neville's molesty tentacula hybrids).

What if instead of a terse, "Here's your wand, don't be a twat with it," he opted for something more personable? Friendly, even.

It was unprecedented, sure, but all new things are unprecedented once. And some of them turn out well, such as bonding over a battle with a cave troll in the girls' loo.

Harry's life had never been particularly conventional, anyway. That's what he'd reminded himself as he argued with a high strung house-elf over waking 'Master Draco' at an hour deemed inappropriate for unexpected visitors.

Harry had had to be quite insistent to finally be led to an "informal" sitting room to wait. (It was informal like Buckingham Palace was a small summer cottage.) Draco fairly burst into the room a few minutes later, out of breath and wearing a panicked expression, along with a light blue dressing gown and--sweet Merlin--very little else.

Harry's train of thought had promptly derailed.

Seeing the direction of his vacant stare, Draco pulled his loose dressing gown closed over his chest and cinched the belt tight at his waist, glaring menacingly. He'd also said something about hexing Harry to smithereens if he was just there for a lark. That had jogged Harry's memory of the reason he'd come to the Manor in the first place, which was to give Draco his wand (not to leer at his bits).

Draco's face, usually a stoic or sneering mask, had been wonderfully animated and expressive as it ran the gamut from irritation to confusion to delight in the span of moments. Harry thought his guard must be down due to the late hour and the unexpectedness of Harry's presence and purpose.

After nearly breaking Harry's heart with the unfettered joy he clearly felt at having his wand back and in working order, Draco had done something unexpected, too: he'd thanked Harry simply and sincerely, with no trace of the malice or scorn Harry had come to expect from his schoolyard rival.

And that had decided it for him. Throwing caution (and history and good sense and a number of other things) to the wind, he asked Draco out for a pint.

Draco had stared at him like he'd grown another head.

At first Harry thought it was because he couldn't imagine a worse way to spend the night (and that had hurt), but the weakness of Draco's refusals clued him in to the fact he was simply apprehensive and unsure.

Harry could work with apprehensive and unsure; he'd been doing that--his whole life, really. But more specifically since he decided to pay this visit. 

At his urging, Draco left to change into real clothes, expression doubtful and vaguely concerned, as though he couldn't believe he was actually complying. Frankly, Harry couldn't believe it either.

But that was how they'd ended up in a muggle pub in the middle of the night burying old hatchets and debating the immaterial components of self-identity.

"Have you forgotten who you're taking to, Potter?" Draco had pressed. "I am Draco Malfoy. Of the Wrong-Side-of-the-War Malfoys. My father, Lucius Malfoy,  tried repeatedly to kill you and your friends, and I wasn't much better. My name will be forever tainted because of it."

"It doesn't matter if your name is Malfoy, O'Mally, or Weasley--you're still you," Harry argued (ignoring Draco's theatrical shudder). "You've let other people tell you who that is for far too long."

"So you've added philosopher and life coach to your already-long resumé, have you?" Draco sneered, but Harry could tell he was more interested than he let on.

"Maybe I have. Now will you please tell me who Draco Malfoy _really_ is? I'd like to hear it from the source."

It had taken Draco long moments to recover, but the ensuing conversation had been brilliant. Once he got going (and was loosened up by enough watery ale to get a small elephant drunk), Draco revealed himself to be funny,  insightful, intelligent, and a surprisingly good listener. It was almost like talking to Hermione, if Hermione was generally more rude (and distractingly fit).

Harry didn't want that single conversation to be the end of things--a strange, surreal anomaly, never to be repeated or reprised. He wanted Draco for a friend. And maybe--well, that was probably the ale talking. At any rate, he devised a plan.

He suggested that if Draco was so concerned about his name, he should go to his probation hearing and request more time to show that he was really serious about this reform business. Harry even selflessly volunteered to monitor his progress. Draco had been surprised and grateful.

They'd only parted ways after the barman had given up on his polite throat clearing and pointed looks and resorted to stacking all the other chairs on empty tables and wiping theirs down with a sopping rag. When even _that_ didn't get through their alcohol-soaked brains, he'd gruffly announced, "It's time to go, lads," and they reluctantly did. 

Harry managed to apparate home without splinching himself (small miracle, that) and laid awake replaying the events of the night in his head until long after sunrise.

He was so trashed by the time his shift was supposed to start the next morning (that morning, rather), he would have called out sick if not for the promise he'd made. Instead, he choked down a hangover potion, dragged his sorry carcass in to work, and submitted the necessary paperwork to be assigned as Draco's probation officer. 

His regular visits to the Manor soon became the highlight of his weeks as the banter between him and Draco became easier and they fell into an almost accidental friendship. ( _Almost_ because it had been exactly what Harry had hoped for and intended.)

He encouraged Draco to pursue his potions mastery in light of his natural talent and interest (and so that Draco would have something to occupy his time besides puttering around the Manor with only house-elves and his mother for company, but Harry didn't dare tell him that). He also talked him into braving monthly dinners at Ron and Hermione's, which had started out as horribly awkward and tense affairs for all involved but had lately become much more relaxed and almost pleasant, thanks in large part to Luna and Neville being the kindest people ever sorted outside of Hufflepuff.

Draco, in turn, nagged Harry to stop taking unnecessary risks in the line of duty ("Whose horrible fashion sense will I get to insult if you get yourself killed?") and pestered him into establishing a healthier work-life balance. He also introduced him to all sorts of exotic foods and experiences that Harry never would have tried on his own. 

All in all, the relationship had been good for the both of them, he thought. But he had a feeling it could be better. And that was why he was presently advising Hannah on Draco's favorite flowers and what greenery the snob simply wouldn't abide in a bouquet (for reasons only Draco could ever understand).

It was soppy, Harry knew. And Draco would tease him mercilessly. But maybe, just maybe, he would also consider snogging him.

That possibility made it worth the risk.

Harry picked up an iceberg rose that had been discarded for falling short of perfection. A couple of interior petals were slightly crushed, but Harry thought it was lovely anyway. He breathed in its delicate floral scent and deemed it just as sweet as that of any of the unblemished flowers.

"Mind the thorns, Harry," Neville warned. "It's a prickly one you've picked."

Harry snorted. "I seem to like 'em that way, Nev."

Neville chuckled and shook his head. "That you do, mate. I wish you well."

Harry tucked the rose into his lapel and waved goodbye. Whistling off-key, he strode out of the shop and into the bright April sunshine.

\---

As the jingling of the bells faded, Neville put his arm around his wife and kissed the top of her head, relishing the feel of her soft curls against his cheek.

Grinning at his own cleverness, he mused, "Courting Draco Malfoy is anything but a bed of roses."

Hannah groaned and shoved at his side. "You're lucky you're hot," she groused, making Neville grin all the harder. 


End file.
